


Anything can Happen

by clueing_for_looks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day fic challenge, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clueing_for_looks/pseuds/clueing_for_looks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft asks Lestrade out under the pretext of doing paperwork.  </p>
<p>A Mystrade Valentine's Day fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything can Happen

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Valentine's Day has come and gone, but here's my contribution to the Valentine's Day Fic Challenge posted on fuckyeahmystradefanfic.
> 
> (Anyone who's also following Winter's Child, I'll be updating tomorrow or Tuesday this week!)

 Mycroft picked up his phone for the fifth time in an hour, letting his fingers trace over the buttons without actually pressing anything. He had composed eighteen variations of the same message in his head, but none of them merited sending.

Whatever he chose to write must be purged of all imperfections, as there was no way to retrieve an ill-advised text. He had one chance to succeed, just one, and it had to be properly timed. Mycroft stroked the buttons again slowly, beginning another deviation on the imagined message. Swarve, but down to earth, authoritive, but not pushy. Also, he had to try and communicate his handsomeness. Mycroft had not fully worked out how that was possible over texts, but was sure it was.

When Anthea entered his office with her usual stealth, Mycroft fumbled with the phone in mild panic before dropping it back onto the desk.

“Yes?” he said, startled into abruptness, causing her to look up from her Blackberry. Mycroft watched her eyes do a slow sweep of the room, before focusing on his dropped phone.

Anthea tilted her head a little to the side, the edge of her mouth twitching. “Problem, sir?”

No, no, no. This was private. Utterly, embarrassingly, private. Mycroft smoothed his face down into its placating mask and offered a bland smile. “Just about to text the Prime Minister, my dear. I’m collecting my thoughts.”

Anthea set several of the folders she had been carrying into his inbox, her steps light and bouncing. Bouncing? Amused, then. Or aroused. No, look at how her eyes flicked away from him – definitely amused.

“Would you prefer to speak to him in person, sir? I can call his secretary and get you put through –”

Oh, she was definitely sassing him. Anthea had even taken two steps towards the door for good measure, with all the grace and mocking pretence of a good assistant. Mycroft wanted to remind her, preferably with some sort of heavy object to hand, that he was not paying for sarcasm.

He supposed it was his own fault. Of all the dumb and mindless PAs available, he had been indulgent enough to pick a clever and ruthless one.

“I prefer to text,” he said calmly, Sherlock’s usual line slipping out without thought. “It’s a very important message.”

How did she know? She couldn’t really know. His emotions were constrained and invisible and – and private. Mycroft gripped his hands together under the desk, feeling suddenly warm.

“Better get on and text him, sir. He might have plans this evening.”

“Plans?” No – he couldn’t think about being rejected for something so simple as a prior engagement. He frowned a little, affecting confusion.

“Plans, yes. Dinner, candles…” She shot Mycroft an amused look. “He _is_ married, sir. Not even the Prime Minister is exempt from Valentines Day.”

Mycroft heaved an enormous sigh, ignoring his increased pulse-rate. “Oh my, is it the 14th already? How the beginning of the year has flown.” He stared at Anthea pointedly, but she stared back with knowing eyes.

Valentine’s Day – a wretched festival of commercialised love. He had always viewed the couples who partook in it with detached distain, feeling rather glad to be removed from it all.

This year, however, had been slightly different. He had…well. Not completely forgotten about it.

“Any plans for yourself?” Mycroft asked, attempting to redirect the focus of the conversation. He watched Anthea’s posture straighten, her eyes soften a little. Yes, it was completely obvious, why did he even ask? Long term boyfriend, 6 – no – 7 years, office worker, had recently started growing his hair out… 

She quirked a rare smile at him, and sauntered out of the room. “Text him, sir.”

Text him. Yes, he really should get on and do it.

Mycroft picked up his mobile for the sixth time, feeling resolved.

_Detective Inspector Lestrade, if you are agreeable –_

_Detective Inspector, I’ve been meaning to ask you_ –

 _Lestrade, would you_ –

Too formal, much too formal. He sounded like a government official reprimanding a civilian. Mycroft ran fingers over his thinning hair, wondering what a normal-person’s excuse would be. It was just dinner, after all. Just dinner between two acquaintances who shared a mutual tolerance for the same Consulting Detective.

Mycroft’s eyes fell on the manila folders Anthea had left for him. Unorthodox, maybe, but a legitimate reason to meet. Lestrade was a high-ranking police official, he understood that paperwork waited for no man. Yes, it was obvious. The perfect excuse.

 _Paperwork regarding the recent M15 massacre requires your signature and approval. As this is a matter of national security, I will require a meeting with you today_ – MH     

Before he could analyse the decision and delete it, Mycroft jammed his thumb onto the send button. The vibration of a new message appeared less than a minute later, making him jump badly. Mycroft opened the reply.

 _Sorry, who is this?_ – GL

Something tight seemed to be constricting in Mycroft’s chest, and he slumped back into his desk chair. It shouldn’t have hurt, really. They had only met twice, and both times had been taken up with Sherlock’s latest catastrophe of social interaction.

The first time he had simply introduced himself as ‘Sherlock’s older brother’ and then left to check on said younger sibling. The second time he hadn’t said anything to Lestrade at all. He had simply watched from afar, cataloguing the man’s quick, agile movements as he began processing Sherlock’s release papers from the holding cells.

Still, now that he had made contact Mycroft supposed he would have to continue. One did not simply throw around the words ‘national security’ in text messages and then drop the matter moments later.

 _I am able to accommodate your schedule if timing is problematic. Those papers really must be looked at today_ – Mycroft Holmes   

The phone buzzed moments later, and Mycroft wrapped both hands around it in a parody of prayer.

 _Oh sorry, the number came up blocked. Yeah, I can do today. This evening work for you_?

Mycroft stared at the tiny letters on his screen. Lestrade had no plans? It was highly improbable for him to be date-less on Valentine’s Day, unlike Mycroft. Perhaps he hadn’t remembered today’s date, and would be leaving some poor woman stranded at a restaurant. Mycroft could not bring himself to feel sorry about it.

 _Seven O’clock will be acceptable. I shall send a car to collect you from Scotland Yard_ – MH

_Do you need me to bring any files?_

Files, right. For their fake official meeting.

 _No. Your presence will be_ – What, ‘more than enough?’ ‘More than I could have hoped for?’ – _adequate. See you shortly, Detective Inspector_ – MH

Mycroft dropped the phone back onto the desktop, feeling the sharp stab of adrenaline cooling into anxious disbelief. He had done it, _finally_. He had asked a man out on a date, and that man had said yes.

Sort of.

***

“What did he say, sir?”

Mycroft twisted in front of the full-length mirror, trying to see how slimming the beige suit jacket was in comparison to the darker brown. He hummed at Anthea distractedly, fiddling with the buttons of his cuffs.

“Pardon me, _sir_.” She didn’t like being ignored. “The Prime Minister, what did he say?”

“The Prime – oh. Oh yes, everything went swimmingly.” He turned back to his reflection, feeling his ears turning pink. “All straightened out, all fine.”

Anthea raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll also be needing you to make a dinner reservation for tonight. Somewhere nice – but not too nice, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want him to think…” _That I like him_. Except as that really was what Mycroft wanted, he didn’t know why he kept denying it to himself.

Anthea’s fingers danced across her phone keypad. “And who will be joining you, sir?”

“That would be Detective Inspector Lestrade. I received a message from him earlier this afternoon, something about urgent paperwork…A bit tedious, to have to do official business in amongst the Valentine’s Day hoards but…” he waved a dismissive hand, heaving a fake sigh.

“Of course sir.” Anthea held out a pair of non-descript silver cufflinks to him with a carefully blank expression. “And not that you’re dressing to impress at all, but I’d recommend you’d wear the blue pinstripes. The line of the trousers is very…flattering.”

Mycroft almost thought she winked at him, but dismissed it as a trick of the light.  

***

Despite knowing that the car would not be dropping Lestrade off for another twenty minutes, Mycroft decided to get to the restaurant early.

He wasn’t nervous, per say, more straight-backed and mortified. The restaurant, which he had been to on many previous occasions, had been completely transformed. Hearts hung from the ceiling by little silver strings, and each table had been taken over by nauseating amounts confetti and ribbons.

The table he was shown to after giving his name made Mycroft feel physically ill. The candle in the middle was atop a red and gold patterned table-cloth, and the menus had been horrifically re-written to accommodate Valentine’s Day puns.

It was awful, but too late to relocate. Mycroft felt like he was in a low-budget horror film. 

He collected up as much of the confetti as he could and dumped it onto a neighbouring table, but the hearts dangling above the seating were not so easily fixed. Being taller than average anyway, the tip of one glittery heart rested against Mycroft’s head.

The trousers of the suit Anthea insisted he wore were also tighter than he remembered them being. While his usual clothes were loose and accommodating, these felt like they had been tailored to fit as close to his flesh as possible.

Any fear that he had put on weight was undermined by fury at his assistant for choosing them. Was this his punishment for telling one small lie? Mycroft rested his hands in his lap, feeling exposed by the revealing fabric.

At least he was sitting down.

Ten minutes trickled by, and Mycroft was beginning to feel the pitying looks of the wait-staff on him. _I’m fine_ , he communicated through a heavy frown. _I’ve not been stood-up_.

Unless Lestrade _was_ planning on standing him up, of course. He would have to sit through an entire dinner by himself, because it would be too embarrassing to simply get up and leave. He wasn’t going to give the tittering wait staff the satisfaction.  

Mycroft checked his watch covertly, noting that there were still five remaining minutes before Lestrade was officially late. But five minutes among tables of doting couples was a long time to sit alone and unoccupied.

Mycroft entertained himself by predicting the duration of each relationship, and the reasons for their inevitable break-up or divorce. After that momentary satisfaction had passed he moved on to determining who would be proposing this evening, and the average net-worth of each unseen ring.

The man in the far corner was difficult to determine, as the price of his shoes was radically different to that of his clothes and haircut. Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin (an expression that always reminded him fondly of Sherlock) and closed his eyes.

 _The man had a middle-income city job, one which he had held for over five years. Probably seven, judging from his prematurely lined face. Meticulous, tidy, but predominantly sensible. The shoes were an investment, but the clothes merely functional. A man who saved fastidiously to splurge on things he valued_.

A hand touching his shoulder startled Mycroft out of his trance.   

“Mr Holmes?” Lestrade stood awkwardly by the side of the table, obviously still in his work clothes. He made Mycroft feel rather spectacularly over-dressed.

“Mycroft, please,” he said hurriedly, making to stand up before remembering his trousers and aborting the movement. He offered Lestrade his hand from his seated position, feeling off-kilter.

Lestrade shook it bemusedly, dropping into the seat opposite Mycroft.

“You…come here a lot?” Lestrade asked, batting one of the low-swinging hearts away from his ear. “It’s rather more themed than I expected. When you asked me to meet you I didn’t think you meant…”

 _Didn’t think I meant what?_ Mycroft was honestly lost, and the feeling was not enjoyable.

“Did you pick this place yourself?” Lestrade asked him, peeling off his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets.

“I didn’t realise the establishment so actively engaged with St Valentine’s Day. I must confess it is not what I expected either.” The heart was still brushing against the crown of Mycroft’s head, and he hoped that no glitter had transferred to his hair.

“Ah. That would explain it.” Lestrade was looking around the room with interest, taking in the nauseating amount of pink and purple decorations. He had shucked his coat to reveal a standard striped shirt under a dark blazer jacket. Any envy Mycroft might have felt at the man’s effortless handsomeness was waylaid by a sudden fascination with his napkin.

Lestrade was too attractive in the dim candle-light, and staring openly would give the game away.

“Did you have an agreeable day at work?” Mycroft asked, risking a small glance from beneath his eyelashes.

Lestrade snorted, and the sound bordered too closely on being erotic. “I don’t know if it could be called ‘agreeable’, but I suppose it was alright. We wrapped up a double homicide last week and I’ve got paperwork coming out of my bloody ears.”

He shot Mycroft a lop-sided grin. “It seems to be one of those days where admin is following me around. What was it you wanted me to sign?”

Ah, that. Mycroft reached into his briefcase and removed a handful of papers. He had made them all himself on the office computer before leaving, with several completely fictitious spaces that required signatures.

Mycroft hoped the ink hadn’t been smudged in his haste to rip them from the printer.

“Just here if you wouldn’t mind.” He handed Lestrade an ink pen and watched the man hunch over the documents. “So, tell me about your childhood.”

Lestrade’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth as he read. He looked up quizzically at Mycroft’s question. “Pardon?”

“Where are you from? I believe your accent is localised to Somerset, but there is a certain margin for error.”

Lestrade set the pen down slowly, and leant back in his chair to study Mycroft. The feeling was unnerving, seeing those dark brown eyes sweeping over him. Mycroft couldn’t work out the intent behind it, but within seconds Lestrade had flicked him a casual grin. Whatever he had seen (or deduced, Mycroft worried) had obviously been found acceptable.

“Are you trying to tell me you couldn’t have read that in a file, Mr Holmes?”

“I don’t understand you.”

A lazy hand reached out to gesture at him. “You. Smart suit, high-up government job, enough strings to keep Sherlock out of jail for life. You must have a file on little old me.”

The temptation to read it had given him insomnia, the second time he had seen Lestrade.

“I’m afraid that you’re mistaken. I occupy a minor position in British Government.”

Lestrade snorted again, and Mycroft felt his stomach flip. Lestrade’s posture was open and relaxed, tilting back in the chair with one hand resting loosely by his cutlery.

Mycroft indulged the fantasy of wrapping his own hand around it and feeling for the strong pulse he imagined to be pounding in Lestrade’s wrist.  

Making a grab for any part of a policeman’s body was an ill-advised move however, and Mycroft kept his hands to himself.

One of the serving boys appeared at the edge of the table, depositing a large ice bucket of champagne onto the fake documents. Mycroft watched the ink run slightly under the droplets of moisture. Two already full champagne flutes had been placed in front of himself and Lestrade.

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose as he reached out for his drink. “You already ordered champagne? What are we celebrating?” He rose the glass to his lips but had only taken a careful sip before lowering it in alarm.

“Um, Mycroft…” he held the glass up to the light, revealing the tell-tale glint at the very bottom. “Is this…”

“No!”

Mycroft snatched the glass out of Lestrade’s grip, letting some of the liquid slop over the table and onto his hand. He had seen it all a second too late. The significant glint of silver at the bottom of the glass was so obvious – _obvious_ – and he was an idiot.

“I didn’t put that there!” He wasn’t brave enough to ask for a date outright, let alone marriage.

The champagne felt sticky on his fingers, and Lestrade’s face was still frozen into an unreadable expression.

“Detective Inspector, please accept my apologies. I’ll be right back.” He stood up quickly, forgetting his tight trousers. Mycroft flushed bright red as Lestrade’s eyes narrowed in on his crotch and turned hurriedly away.

He would kill Anthea for sending him here. Not only was it nauseating in every sense but the staff were utterly incompetent.

He made it over to the corner table, where the man was sneaking anxious looks at his date.

“This is yours,” Mycroft said, thumping the flute onto the table before her. “Marry him, he’s just gotten a lovely new promotion at work and I’m sure he’d splash out on an expensive wedding. Happy Valentine’s Day.”  

Lestrade’s face was pink with laughter by the time Mycroft had resumed his seat.

“Did you – did you just –” he wiped away a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Did you just propose to that woman?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft snapped. “If anything, that young gentleman almost proposed to _you_. I was preventing a misunderstanding.”

Lestrade reached across and took Mycroft’s champagne flute, sipping the contents merrily. “Damn this is good. Do you think it’s our consolation prize?”

Mycroft shrugged, feeling a complicated mix of emotions. His stomach was still doing flips and he felt rather in need of a lay down.

“Best proposal I’ve had today,” Lestrade joked. “Oh your face when it arrived…”

“Gentlemen.” One of the small willowy waitresses had approached their table, her face regretful. “I’m afraid that these tables are reserved for Valentine’s Day couples only. If you’re occupied by business we have several tables out the back which are much more suitable –”   

“No, no, we’re fine here,” Mycroft interrupted, feeling his face flush. “We’re nearly finished and were about to order.”

The woman shot Mycroft a reproachful look from under her fringe. “I’m sorry sir, but these tables were intended for romantic meals only. If I might be able to move you…”

Lestrade was looking at Mycroft in mild amusement, as if speculating on what he might do to keep their table. 

Mycroft wondered how insane he must look, fighting to keep them in the love-dominated room.

“I’m afraid we’re quite comfortable. If we could just see a specials menu, that would be excellent.” He waved her away, wondering if the movement was too much. She obviously hesitated on whether or not to reprimand him further, before sauntering back to the kitchens.

Lestrade mimicked Mycroft’s dismissive wave, shaking his head.

“I’m surprised she didn’t clip you round the ear, mate.”

“I think it crossed her mind.”

Lestrade hummed in agreement, and fiddled with a piece of heart-shaped confetti Mycroft had not managed to sweep off the table. “Is it important that we’re in this room, then?”

He’d been rumbled. Mycroft cleared his throat and checked his watch, wondering how to respond. It was foolish, he knew, to have a date where only one party knew of it. But the idea of confessing, of seeing Lestrade’s face tense up in discomfort, or having to let the man make his excuses…

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Mycroft said quickly, feeling his pulse jump. “A table for two was booked, and it was the fault of the restaurant for seating us in such a selective area. I am not willing to let a part-time, chain-smoking waitress dictate our evening when we were getting along perfectly well.” He picked up a menu and buried his face in it.

From the soft rustling noise, he deduced that Lestrade was also perusing the menu.

“I think I’ll have the ‘ _seductively_ -fresh salmon with braised _Ooh baby_ fennel and _grab_ - _able_ mussels.’”

The words almost made Mycroft choke, but he hid his face in his menu, refusing to look at the man opposite him. “That sounds interesting.”

“Doesn’t it?” Lestrade swatted at his arm, and Mycroft glanced up reluctantly. “Look, I know this is more than you planned, when you asked me out for a business dinner. But relax, ok? It’s all fine. I haven’t been out on Valentine’s Day in years, and I plan to enjoy it.”

 _This is the only date I’ve ever been on_ , Mycroft wanted to tell him, but said nothing.

***

“How was your dinner?” Mycroft asked, when Lestrade had finally set down his knife and fork with a sigh. Mycroft had barely tasted a mouthful of the food after Lestrade had begun telling him little snippets of his life.

 The information was fascinating, and Mycroft had hardly been able to look away from the DI’s face form the first sentence. Who knew, for example, that Lestrade was a fan of modern jazz, or that he had moved house three times in the last two years because of criminal activity on the part of his landlords? “Having to arrest your landlord for possession kind of makes a tenancy awkward,” Lestrade had told him. “I sometimes think I attract trouble, but that’s alright. What’s life without a little drama?”

Mycroft did not feel he had returned the favour, keeping his own anecdotes small and non-descriptive. He wanted more of Lestrade, the man who had wanted to join the police force since he was seven years-old, rather than himself. Mycroft was boring in comparison.

“The fish was excellent,” Lestrade told him contentedly, patting his stomach in a parody of weight gain. Mycroft felt a stab of anxiety go through him at his own waistline, but forced it down.

“I’m glad this evening was…acceptable. Once again, I’m sorry to have dragged you out on Valentine’s Day. I was a little surprised that you had no plans.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I wouldn’t have missed my twelve-second proposal for the world.”

Mycroft gripped his hands together tightly under the table. “But I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything romantic. I must admit I thought you would be amorously involved with someone.”

“The night is still young.”

Oh. _Oh_. Visions of Lestrade wrapped around a stranger’s body made Mycroft feel a little ill. He forced a tight smile, but his face felt rigid and immobile.

“You have a girlfriend?” he asked lightly, hoping the open hostility in his thoughts did not show.

 Lestrade exhaled, causing the flame of their candle to flicker. Mycroft thought there was a trace of a frown in his expression.

“That would technically be ‘boyfriend’, and no I don’t.”

Boyfriend. Mycroft held the eye contact, feeling lightheaded.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him, confused. “Didn’t you already know that? I thought with you being Sherlock’s older brother and all you’d have deduced it.”

No, he never presumed homosexuality in others. He could barely recognise it in himself.

Boyfriend. Lestrade didn’t have a boyfriend. “So, you’re…That. That’s, um…” God, where were his words?

“Is it possible that this may have been a date, Mr Holmes?” 

The pause stretched out in front of them, one that Mycroft couldn’t bear to fill. Lestrade’s fingers were drumming restlessly against the table, and Mycroft’s mind was getting tangled up in the rhythm.

The silence quickly became awkward, and Mycroft felt trapped _. Speak!_ his brain commanded, everything screaming that Lestrade was about to leave, about to walk away… _Anything, say anything_.

“Maybe I got the wrong impression,” Lestrade said, when the silence was starting to become unbearable. “Thanks for dinner, Mycroft.” Lestrade had stood up, stuffing his arms hurriedly into the sleeves of his coat.

Mycroft felt his mouth fall open. _Speak, you fool_!

It was only as Lestrade was halfway to the door than Mycroft’s brain caught up with events. He threw down too much cash and stood up, feeling the plastic heart smack him in the face. Glitter stung in his eyes and he didn’t care, he just needed to be out of there.   

He ran blindly towards the door, thinking how much more romantic this sort of thing always looked in movies. The reality was a horrified burning sensation that made his heart feel like it would explode out of his chest.

He was so caught up in the panic that Lestrade would have already located a taxi, than Mycroft collided headlong into the man as soon as he fell out of the restaurant.

Lestrade took an unsteady step back, looking bewildered when Mycroft clutched at the sleeves of his coat like a lunatic.

“I – you – don’t go,” Mycroft managed, his heart still beating erratically. “I mean, if you have no plans, please don’t go.”

Lestrade pulled away from him, his expression still drawn. “The dinner was lovely, Mycroft, but it’s over now. I’m going home.”

Everything was falling apart, and there seemed to be no remedy. He was stupid, _stupid_ , and the thought tortured him as he watched Lestrade glancing at the main road for a cab.

“Lestrade –” One last attempt, one last effort. “I’m sorry that my response was so incomprehensible…It was – I only meant –”

“Look, Mycroft.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face wearily. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you, alright? I shouldn’t have assumed. But you invited me out on Valentine’s Day to a restaurant which has romance coming out of its bloody arse. And those documents weren’t like the official ones we keep at the MET, so I just sort of presumed…” Lestrade broke off with a sniff, looking away. “I thought we were getting on well. I should have guessed you were straight.”

Something burst inside Mycroft’s chest, like a carefully constructed dam had sprung a leak.

“I’m not,” he said quietly.  

“Not what?”

His head hurt, and maybe that meant it was working. “Not…straight.” He felt hot, much too hot. How was he so hot on such a cold night?  

Lestrade was looking at him irritably. “Great, so you’re gay and you _still_ don’t want to date me. That’s just peachy. Why did you act so bloody weird when I told you I was gay then?”

Maybe he was having a heart attack, Mycroft thought. He felt strange and dizzy, his body tingling with adrenaline. If these were to be his last words, he supposed there could be worse ones.

“I…” Deep breathes, calm yourself. “I haven’t told anyone, ever. You’re the first.”

There. Let Lestrade’s mind analyse the sentence, and find the truth in it. The virgin asking out the copper. His face was going a horrible shade of pink, and his ears were ringing. The confession seemed to have broken him in every way.

Lestrade’s mouth had fallen open unattractively. “You mean…”

“Yes, alright? It’s fine. Thank you for a lovely night Detective Inspector.” _I’ll never contact you_ _again,_ he added silently.

This time it was Lestrade who griped his arm to prevent him walking away.

“You mean it was a date? The crazy restaurant, the oddly-formatted documents, all of it?”

Mycroft shut his eyes for a few seconds of calm, taking stock of the situation. Lestrade had witnessed his embarrassment, but he would be gentlemanly enough to conceal it. Anthea would know by the expression on his face tomorrow, when she asked him how his dinner went. But nobody else would know, just those two, just the two of them –

“Mycroft, you silly bugger, open your eyes.”

He did, and found Lestrade staring at him softly. He opened his mouth to make his excuses, but Lestrade pressed one cold finger open his lips, silencing him.

“I think we should go for a walk,” he told Mycroft, earnestly. “It’s still quite early, and there are no taxis about. I always feel better after a stroll.” Before Mycroft could second guess the motion, Lestrade had wrapped an arm securely through Mycroft’s and begun pulling him gently away from the restaurant.

“You don’t have to,” Mycroft said firmly, even though the linked support of Lestrade’s arm felt like the only thing keeping him upright.

“I know I don’t have to.”

They walked in silence for a while, until Mycroft’s mind had quietened. The night was still and chilly, but Lestrade was giving off a comfortable amount of heat. The only sounds were their footsteps on the pavement, and those were muted and soft.

After a while Lestrade’s hand tightened on his arm, and Mycroft knew that it was time for conversation again.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know?” Lestrade said awkwardly, as they rounded a street corner. Mycroft sighed, feeling very embarrassed indeed. “I would have said yes, if you’d told me it was a date. Actually, that’s the whole reason I came. I remembered you from a crime scene a few months ago.”

Mycroft made a soft noise of acknowledgment, but felt a spark of hope ignite in his chest.

Lestrade grinned a little, remembering. “Some posh young thing with an assistant and an umbrella, looking for Sherlock Holmes. Never seen anyone look that comfortable in a suit before.”  

It was beginning to rain. Huge droplets darkened the shoulders of Lestrade’s coat and Mycroft’s suit jacket. Of all the times not to bring a brolly.

 _I’m sorry the evening was such a fiasco_ , Mycroft thought, and then wondered if he should say the words out loud. _It still ranks as the best date of my life_.

“You’re getting wet,” Lestrade noted absently, as a raindrop dripped down the long curve of Mycroft’s nose. “Should we phone for a cab?”

Mycroft knew that he could phone for Anthea and a car would be there for them in under ten minutes. He found he didn’t much like the idea. The sight of Lestrade’s hair gradually getting darker with water was much more fascinating.

“I think we’re fine,” Mycroft said. Carefully, so carefully that he hadn’t really noticed it happening, Lestrade had moved his hand from Mycroft’s arm to tangle their fingers together. It was the first time anyone had held his hand since childhood, and Mycroft blinked at the older man in surprise.

“What kind of man forgets his gloves,” Lestrade said evasively. Mycroft thought he would quite happily burn all of his gloves if it meant more hand holding.  

Before he could enjoy the moment too much, a solid figure bumped into him from behind.

“ _Atvainojos_ ,” the man mumbled, and a woman wearing a spotted raincoat beamed up at him in delight. “Apologies.” She began poking her husband in the side, motioning to Mycroft and Lestrade. Lestrade was looking at the two in bemusement, but Mycroft had spotted the tip of a London map peeking out of the man’s bag. _Tourists_.

“ _Are you lost_?” Mycroft attempted, his Latvian coming out rather stilted.

The woman beamed at him, and began trilling on in her native tongue faster than Mycroft could keep up. He caught the words _lovely young gentleman, Piccadilly Line,_ and _Aunt Livinia’s wedding_ , before he cut back in.

Lestrade’s gloved hand was warm on his. He gave the directions to the nearest Tube stop hurriedly, wanting to savour the feeling in peace.

“Thank you,” the woman said earnestly, when Mycroft had given them his most basic directions. “ _Sorry for interrupting your…date_?”

Mycroft nodded at the couple politely, trying to convey with a stern expression that the conversation was over. He had experienced more setbacks on this date than anyone else alive, and he didn’t think that too grandiose a declaration. The tourists finally departed, with much smiling and waving of hands. Mycroft turned back to Lestrade, only to find the man’s expression to be somewhat dazed.

“My apologies,” Mycroft cut in quickly. This was where generosity got you, and he made a mental note to let London struggle along by itself in the future. “They were looking for the Piccadilly Line, and it would have been cruel to let them continue. It’s over half an hour away on foot, and the Central line is far closer...” he trailed off. Trying to impress a Londoner with his knowledge of London? Idiotic. 

Lestrade was still looking at him with a slack jaw however. Mycroft wondered if he had food on his face. He squeezed Lestrade’s hand, nervously.  

“You speak, what was that – Swedish? Russian?”

Mycroft blinked, caught by surprise.

“Latvian, but in the interests of full disclosure I suppose it was technically Selonian. They were from Latgale, staying in London for a wedding. Looking for the Piccadilly Line.”

It was better than having food on his face.

“You’re also invited to stay with them, any time you’re in Eastern Latvia.”  

Lestrade surprised him again with an abrupt laugh, looking up at him in what Mycroft hesitantly termed ‘wonder’.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises? Go on then, mystery man, impress me. How many languages can you speak?”

This wasn’t the way dates usually went, Mycroft was certain of it.

“A few,” he said evasively. Pride was not attractive, and he focused on the fabric of the glove. He ignored the way Lestrade’s face fell, wearily adding it to the tally of unforeseen mistakes he had made that night.

The rain was getting harder, and no longer added to the romance of the evening. The rain was sinking heavily into his suit, giving him the feeling of being waterlogged. His trousers, his stupidly tight trousers, were now slicked to his legs obscenely.

Mycroft felt like burying his face in his hands, or else praying to a deity he didn’t believe in. Why, of all days, was this one behaving so rottenly? He was a master of his environment, practically the ruler of London. There was nothing he could not succeed at –

– except for this. Outside of government meetings and stuffy foreign-affair functions, his social-muscles were never flexed. Never had his evasion of the general public come to haunt him so cruelly. 

“We could walk,” Lestrade said, not looking half as annoyed as Mycroft expected him to be. “We’re both too soaked through to bother with a taxi now. My apartment’s not far, and we should get you out of those clothes.”

Mycroft’s mind bulked at the words, struggling under the influx of new data. Lestrade had not missed a beat however, and Mycroft struggled to keep up with him.

“I have some clothes that will fit you, and you can leave that suit to hang for a bit –”

_Him, naked, at Lestrade’s apartment._

“ – you’ll have to get it dry-cleaned of course –”

_Exposed, completely exposed, worse than getting changed at school._

“ – but it should be salvageable.”

_Lestrade seeing everything, his body wasn’t ready, the diet wasn’t over._

“Hey, Mycroft, are you listening?”

 _Focus_. “Of course, Lestrade,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Going back to your flat. Very sensible.”

Lestrade gripped his fingers again tightly and began pulling him down a side-street in the direction of his flat. “You could call me Greg, you know,” he said. “As I’m calling you Mycroft.”

Greg. It was intimate, friendly, and warm. Still…there was the problem of going back to Lestrade’s house. The thought had a grey tinge round it in Mycroft’s mind, like the ultimate foreboding event. He hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t expected the date to go well at all. What underwear was he wearing? Oh Lord, he hadn’t stuck to his diet for the last few days, and he was bound to be bloated from dinner…

“Gregory it is,” Mycroft said, and pushed down his squirming thoughts. He should be beyond happy. They were now on _first name terms_. He could not have asked for a better progression to the evening.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Lestrade insisted, as they walked down another darkened street. “I feel like I know nothing about you. Where are you from?”

“The same place as Sherlock. Wiltshire.”

“Yeah, but what was it like growing up there?”

_Isolated. Lonely. Days spent hoarding food in his room refusing to eat, before binging through all of it. Worry. Studying. Boarding school._

“Fine,” he said tightly.

Lestrade heaved a sigh, one that made Mycroft’s shoulders tense. “Look, Mycroft, give me something to work with here. I want to know more about you.”

More, Lestrade wanted more. What more was there? He was Mycroft Holmes, British Government, older brother to Sherlock Holmes. Those were his credentials, that was his life.

Mycroft shrugged awkwardly, and felt Lestrade drop his hand. The action hurt more than it should have.

“Mycroft, just tell me something. Anything.”

The demand irritated him suddenly. He took a step away from the silver-haired man, not knowing why he had thought it so excellent to go out on this date at all. They didn’t know each other, not at all, and there was a _reason_ for that.

“I don’t have to share my life story with you,” Mycroft snapped, startling himself with how aggressive he sounded. Lestrade looked taken aback as well. He had crossed both arms over his chest and was looking at Mycroft in confusion. “My life is private, and I want it to stay that way.”

He had come out tonight, for god’s sake. He couldn’t – he couldn’t just go back to Lestrade’s flat and –

“Mycroft, what’s going on?” Lestrade was fixing him with his best policeman’s glare, his posture serious and authoritative. Mycroft felt like hiding from that intense gaze.

He wouldn’t do it. He would call Anthea and be taken home, back to his comfortingly familiar bedroom. He would fall asleep alone, and wake up alone, and get on with his life.

“Lestrade…Gregory,” Mycroft began, not knowing how to proceed. “I have greatly enjoyed our evening. Your company has been very pleasurable –”

“Oh no you don’t.”

 _No, no, go home Mycroft_. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t fob me off with some polished politician excuse. What’s the real reason? Did I do something wrong?” Lestrade’s eyes were wide and pleading, but he still had a hard edge to his jaw. Mycroft stared at his shoes, feeling stuck. “Come on, Holmes. What is it?”

 _You wanted this_ , Mycroft reminded himself savagely. _You invited him out. It’s even Valentine’s Day, for god’s sake, you should have known it would come to this! Just tell him. Tell him_.

“I am not – have never been – a man who needs a companion to be happy.”

Lestrade’s expression gave nothing away, clearly inviting Mycroft to say more. A droplet of rain was caught on his eyelashes, and it made Mycroft’s own eye twitch reflexively.

“I have found happiness and pleasure in my career, in books, in art, and in my irritating younger brother. I’m even thin now, for goodness sake!” He rubbed his hands together in agitation. “All my life I’ve been certain that intellect was all I needed to sustain me, and I was right. I don’t do _people_.”

Lestrade gave a soft snort of derision and turned away, his shoulders hunched and brooding. Mycroft braced himself for the kill-shot, the one to make Lestrade walk away for good.

“I’ve never needed sex to be happy, and I won’t be changing who I am tonight.”

The rain continued to pour, and Lestrade hadn’t moved. Mycroft wondered if he had said the words loudly enough. After a few seconds Lestrade did move, but it was only to angrily swat Mycroft’s upper arm and then run both hands through his hair. He was making a low sound in his throat like an exasperated moan.

“Mycroft you prat, you utter _prat_ …” Lestrade’s face was a tormented cross between a laughing and frustration. “At what point tonight have I propositioned you? Tell me when.”

“Well, your apartment…getting me out of my clothes.” The words sounded wrong in his mouth.

“Because you’re _wet_ , you idiot. I didn’t mean I’d like to burn your clothes in the fire and make you strut around my flat naked. I just thought if we were going to go out again, I’d like a boyfriend who didn’t have hypothermia. Seriously, you’re an utter basket-case.”

 _Boyfriend. Going out again_. Mycroft felt his cheeks heating up to previously unexplored levels of warmth. “So…” he had to be sure. “No sex?”

“ _No_. Look, I’m not gagging for it, no matter what you might think. I’m perfectly fine waiting, and even more so if it’s important to you.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly, shooting a covert glance at Mycroft from under his lashes. “So, are we ok?”  

Mycroft’s breath was coming in short pants, feeling giddy. Every fear in his head, every doubt from tonight, had been squashed into near insignificance.

“More than ok,” he panted, heart pumping loudly in his ears. “If, that is, you’re ok with dating a ‘basket-case’ like me.”

 “You’re mental,” Lestrade told him, honestly. He sounded a little breathless, just as Mycroft was. “You turn up to the most romantic restaurant in London with a briefcase full of paperwork, for Christ’s sake. You speak seven languages better than I can speak one, but don’t know when it’s acceptable to brag about it. We misunderstand each other constantly.”

Mycroft’s eyes, which had been fixed resolutely on the ground, snapped upwards when he felt Lestrade’s fingers brush over his cheekbone. He hadn’t realised they were standing so close together.

“You’re hopelessly humble. You wear the tightest trousers I’ve ever seen and manage to make them look _classy_.” His thumb touched Mycroft’s lower eyelid. “You’re a bit weird. You make me feel…”

Mycroft leant into the touch. For the first time in his life, being weird didn’t sound like an insult.

“You make me feel good. I feel good about this, despite everything.” Lestrade’s fingers were growing more confident now, tracing gently down Mycroft’s cheeks and chin. It was like he was being mapped out and remembered, and Mycroft wished he was brave enough to return the action.

“Right…” the word got caught up when the tip of Lestrade’s index finger brushed over his bottom lip. Mycroft forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose, and continued. “So are we…will we be going out for dinner again sometime?”

Lestrade leant forwards and brought their faces close together. Mycroft would smell toothpaste on the man’s breath, and see every drop of rain clinging to his fringe. He could also see the cut on Lestrade’s neck from this morning’s shave, and the slight blush on the older man’s cheeks.

Tentatively, as if he thought Mycroft might pull away from him, Lestrade pressed his lips against Mycroft’s.       

It was soft, slow, and nothing at all what Mycroft had thought kissing would be like. There were no fireworks like the films described, but nor was it slobbery and unhygienic as he’d feared. There was just the warm pressure of another person’s lips against his, and the simplicity of it was strangely blissful. Mycroft allowed himself to catalogue the texture and movement of Lestrade’s lips, wanting the memory to fill up his mind palace.

After a few moments Lestrade pulled back, and Mycroft opened his eyes, not realising he had closed them.

“Yep, I definitely want to date you,” Lestrade breathed happily, his face breaking into a grin. “You kiss like you’re more than a bit terrified, but also like I’m the only one you want to snog. I reckon those qualities go quite nicely.” He pressed another short peck onto Mycroft’s bewildered face.

“So this all actually _worked_ ,” Mycroft blurted, unable to help himself. “The covert date, the disastrous food, even the terrible weather…”

He couldn’t restrain himself any more. Lestrade had said they were dating now, so touching was allowed. Mycroft reached his hands out tentatively and wound them into the soft lapels of Lestrade’s coat, feeling the heat of Lestrade’s chest through the layers.

“Anything can happen on Valentine’s Day,” Lestrade said, reaching up to tangle his fingers with Mycroft’s cold ones. “And I think things turned out rather well, don’t you?”

  



End file.
